


Coersive, mind-blowing Prison Sex

by melonbutterfly



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbutterfly/pseuds/melonbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being in prison is both exactly and nothing at all like Chris imagined. It's really not fair, though, that he's not supposed to enjoy sex just because it wasn't exactly his idea at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coersive, mind-blowing Prison Sex

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was thus:  
> Prison kink AU: Chris is in jail for a misdemeanor. His new cellmate offers his protection, but wants something in return...

Nervously, Chris follows the guard to his new cell; he feels very uncomfortable in his new orange overall, like a criminal. Which he supposes he is now, after having been convicted to 90 days in prison for DUI.

It had been an accident, really; a stupid recklessness that had ended about as bad as it could have without Chris injuring anyone but himself. At least they hadn't permanently suspended his driving license – and at least he had the chance to get out early for good behaviour.

But first, he had to make it through the first half of his sentence unscathed.

The other prisoners bang against the bars and jeer as he walks by, yelling obscenities; some of the things they suggest make his ears burn. He tries not to show it, but his heart beats loud in his chest; he knows that if any one of these guys tried to actually do what they're now only threatening him with, he would have little chance to defend himself. It won't matter that he isn't exactly skinny on the muscle front; some of these guys look like they don't do anything else all day but build up muscles. And, from what little Chris knows from TV, they won't mind sharing.

Frankly, he's terrified, and not for the first time, he swears to himself that he will never, ever drink alcohol again.

Wordlessly, the guard comes to a halt in front of a cell; over the noise the other prisoners make, he says something to the guy inside that Chris can't understand. Then Chris is motioned into the cell, the door closes behind him with a loud bang, and suddenly he's alone with his cell mate. The noise outside starts to fade while Chris' new cell mate completely ignores him.

Uncomfortable, Chris shifts, fingering the bundle of cloth in his hands; not knowing what to do, he musters the guy lying on the top bunk, reading a paperback.

Since he's lying down, Chris can't tell how tall he is, but he does look like he isn't exactly small; despite the shapeless orange overall, his legs look extraordinarily long, as do his cotton-clad feet, arms and torso. He has a strong face, as much as Chris can see of it, unruly dark hair, five o'clock shadow even though it's barely past lunchtime, and really thick eyebrows. He _is_ undeniably attractive, the kind of guy Chris would normally be interested in, but... well. He's a convict in a prison, and okay, Chris technically is too, but, well. It's different.

"Are you done staring?", they guy suddenly asks, without looking up from his book. His voice is melodic and sounds somehow out of place in this setting.

"Uhm," Chris makes, startled; he fumbles with the things in his hands – sheets, blanket, towel. "Sorry. I mean, yes. I mean, hi." Inwardly, he groans in distress; just because the guy is sort of hot doesn't mean that he's actually nice, so there's no reason for him to get nervous. Or at least not nervous in _that way_ ; this is a prison, after all, and the guy must have done something to end up here.

Finally, the guy looks up, and Chris finds himself fixed by a piercing stare out of dark brown eyes. The guy stares at him for a moment, and then very obviously looks him up and down in a way that makes Chris both excited and nervous. Immediately, he chastises himself for the excitement – which works better when the guy raises one thick eyebrow and says, "Well, you're a pretty one, aren't you."

Chris frowns. "Right. Why don't you go back to reading your book and leave me alone?"

The guy snorts and puts his book down, sitting up. "Let's make this quick. I'm going to fuck you, you're going to let me."

Chris' mouth drops open. "Like hell I am!", he says loudly.

The guy sighs and exasperatedly runs a hand through his hair. "You have no other choice, pretty."

"Fuck you." Chris balls his hands into fist, creasing the cloth in his hands. "I'm not going to let you. I'll never let you."

"Really." The guy raises an eyebrow. "How are you going to stop me?"

Chris glares and curses inwardly. The guy has a point – Chris might be able to defend himself for a while, but eventually, it's going to happen, whether he wants it to or not.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Thought as much. Furthermore, I'm not the only one who noticed that you're attractive, you might be aware of that." Dryly, he glances outside where guys are still wolf-whistling and howling things. Chris is still hung-up on the "furthermore". Seriously anti-cliché. "Cutting to the chase," the guy continues, "I don't care if you'll also get it from someone else, as long as I get what I want. And don't think I'll care whether you like it or not. But I'd prefer it if I had you to myself."

"Like I give a damn how you prefer it or not," Chris spits. He really doesn't like where this is going.

"You should." The guy smirks and jumps off the bed, taking a step towards Chris. Chris wants to step away, but he makes himself keep still, stand his ground – even if only for show. "Because if you let me have a go at your..." His eyes fixate on Chris' mouth, "Lovely mouth whenever I want, I'm going to make sure nobody else touches you."

Chris is more than sceptical. The guy really doesn't look like he can offer much protection. "Really," he says.

The guy just smirks. "Think about it." Without another word, he turns around and climbs back into his bed, picking up his book again. Goethe, Chris notices absently; _The Sorrows of Young Werther _, as far as he can tell. Christ.__

For a moment, Chris stands around helplessly, but when the guy doesn't look up again, he hesitantly steps forward and makes his bed. After that, he sits down on it aimlessly, not having anything else to do; his cell mate has a bunch of books lying around, but Chris would rather hang himself with his bedding than ask for any. Over the next couple of hours, though, it gets so boring – and it turns out the noise outside never really quiets down – until he's almost at the point where he swallows his pride and asks for a book, that's how bored it is. Christ, he thinks, if it's this bad now, how are the next forty days going to be?

He has to make it through dinner first, though, and that turns out to be much harder than he thought. And he hadn't exactly expected it to be a cakewalk.

First, an infernal noise disguising as the bell rings, and then all cells open at once. Chris' cell mate in the bunk above his jumps off the bed and leaves the cell without looking back – outside he's greeted by handshake by a tall guy with dark hair, and then he wanders off. Chris hesitates for a moment, but he knows there's no use trying to delay the inevitable, and so he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and joins the masses.

By the time he arrives in the mess, his nerves are tattered and he's walking close to the wall. Though careful under the watchful eyes of the guards, in the short walk from his cell to the mess Chris has been groped more than he has in his whole life before combined. On top of that, the inmates have continued with their lewd suggestions, only this time whispering them all up and close into Chris' ears, often combined with a hand squeezing his ass or between his legs. He has balled his hands into fists to hide their shaking, and he doesn't think he'll be able to get any food down. Nevertheless, he gets in line, and wordlessly makes room when someone cuts in in front of him a couple of times. After he gets his tray with food – omelette, a sandwich and an apple – he goes to sit down, choosing a seat away from anybody else.

He's not alone for long, and if before he's poked around in the omelette and eaten a few bites, with that his appetite leaves completely. The guy who sat down opposite him doesn't pay him any attention at first, and Chris nervously considers moving away – but he can only retreat so much before he's with his back to the wall, metaphorically, and he doesn't even know what the guy wants yet.

"You're new here," the guy says after having quickly diminished his omelette.

Chris shrugs; it's not like that's any secret, he has noticed guys whispering and staring at him blatantly from the moment on he left his cell.

"You're Quinto's new cell mate," the guy gets to the crux of the matter, fixating Chris.

Since he has no idea what his cell mate's name actually is, Chris shrugs again. "Looks like it," he offers, for lack of anything else to say.

"Be careful with that one," the guy says off-handedly and, when Chris can't hide his surprise quick enough, "Italian mafia, one of the big guys. I wouldn't mess with him if I were you. Just some friendly advice." With that, the guy gets up and leaves.

This is the second inmate Chris has met, and the second who didn't introduce himself. At least this one didn't call him "pretty" and let him know – however unplanned – his cell mate's name.

Chris has never heard of the last name Quinto – which, well, isn't all that surprising, considering how he really has no idea about Italian Mafia. That is, if what the guy told him is true, which he really has no guarantees about. After all, the guy might have been just as well organised by Quinto, because his cell mate wants to get laid. Which sounds a bit harebrained, but Chris doesn't care right now.

Apropos Quinto, Chris thinks surreptitiously looking out for his cell mate. He absolutely does not want Quinto to notice he's looking out for him, so he leaves it at glancing around out of the corners of his eyes; naturally, he doesn't find Quinto in the mass of orange-clad guys. Criminals, whatever. Only when he has already handed his tray in and is on his way back to the cell does he, per chance, spot him: he's sitting with a bunch of other guys, some of which do look Italian, Chris supposes, though he has always been bad at identifying origins. Besides, just because you're in the Italian mafia doesn't mean you're Italian, right?

Whatever. Quinto looks like he's holding court, though Chris doesn't stay long enough to be sure; the last thing he wants is for Quinto to know he's been looking. Instead, he hurries back to his cell, trying not to walk too fast, but also unable to slow down – he just wants to get away from it all. The cell doors are still open, and many guys eat in their cells; they stand around in groups and socialise. All of them leer at him as he walks by, if they notice him at all, and some of them wolf whistle or call him things – he doesn't think he's ever going to call a woman "pretty" again when he gets out, for how objectified it makes him feel.

Back in his cell – god, his new home for at least one and a half months; he still hasn't gotten used to the thought at all, even though he's been told to expect a prison sentence – Chris looks around and then gets back into his bunk. He seriously has to figure out where to get some entertainment; books would be best, a lot of them, but at this point he's sure he'll be fine with just about anything. Math puzzles, at least those would take him a long time to figure out.

He hasn't been lying there for long when he gets a visitor, and not of the pleasant kind.

"Hello, sweetheart," a voice taunts, and Chris sits up so quickly he hits his head on the top bunk. The guy chuckles when Chris yelps and holds his head.

"There's no reason to hurry on my account, pretty," he says, and there's some chuckling behind him.

Chris quickly rolls out of bed only to find himself crowded in by a – a pretty normal looking guy, actually, not particularly muscular at all. He doesn't have any of Quinto's natural sex appeal, though, and the way he's looking at Chris makes him feel dirty and like he should cover up. Behind him, a bunch of guys are standing in the cell doors, maybe four in total, though Chris only glances at them, unwilling to give the guy in front of him an open.

"Aren't you a cute one," the guy crows, echoing Quinto's words from before, looking him up and down blatantly. Chris is really starting to get sick of it; he isn't all that good looking, and he's certainly not pretty. He's not ugly either, his features are symmetrical, but that's about it – apart from his eyes, which many people have complimented him on, as if he had any doing in how they turned out.

"What do you want?", Chris asks bluntly. He can guess – either the guy wants to mess him up to establish his dominance, or mess him up in a different way to establish his dominance. Chris doesn't particularly favour either, but he'd prefer bruises over rape – though, if his current luck holds, he might be facing up to both, which would just take be icing of the cake.

"Well, pretty boy," the guy purrs and takes a step forward. "I'm still looking for a wife, and it looks like you're volunteering."

Chris balls his fist and tells himself not to hit the guy; he can't make the first move, or the guy's friends will get involved for sure. "Like hell I am," he snaps.

"Oh really." The guy takes another step towards him, raising his hand as if to cup Chris' face; Chris pulls his head back. "Because to me, it seems like nobody's had you yet, and I'd like to be the first."

"Would you, Jason?", a soft, melodic voice asks; there's absolutely no aggression at all in it, but the guy – Jason – pulls his hand back as if burned. He whirls around to face Chris' cell mate; his friends are gone.

"Quinto," he says, sounding both wary and submissive. "You didn't claim him, so I thought-"

"Forgive me for thinking nobody would be stupid enough to touch my wife without asking for permission first," Quinto says calmly; he walks towards them, no threat in his movements or voice, but for some reason Chris feels nervous, like one wrong move and Quinto will flip. He reminds Chris of a big cat, maybe a leopard, or more probably a panther; molten steel in its every move, a piercing stare that makes you freeze up. It's quite possible he's insane, and all of a sudden it's completely obvious that he's dangerous – Chris doesn't know how he could've missed it. Probably only because Quinto didn't want him to.

It shouldn't be hot, but somehow it is, and Chris is so busy telling himself that it really, really isn't, he almost misses Jason's resulting snivelling – Jason apologises about a thousand times and promises it'll never happen again, and it's quite awesome, if it weren't for the fact that as soon as he has scurried off, Chris is alone with Quinto.

Who is staring at Chris quite blatantly, raising an eyebrow as if to say, "told you so."

Chris bites his lower lip and glares defiantly, even though it's stupid.

Quinto shrugs and says, "I'll be collecting that blowjob soon" before climbing back into his bunk, just as the terrible bell rings for the first time, alerting everybody that the cell doors are going to be closed. Just as they begin to shut with loud clangs, Chris hears himself say, "Just a blowjob?"

Afterwards, he wants to bang his head into the wall, he feels that stupid.

Quinto raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. "We'll work up to the rest."

Great. Just great.

Over the next couple of days, surprisingly, Quinto leaves him alone; as does everybody else. There are groups of guys who glare at him, but nobody actually makes any move – and Chris does earn a couple of looks that outside, he would have labelled "envious". He really isn't sure that's what it is, though, because really. Really?

But Quinto pretty much ignores him, which somehow makes Chris unbelievably tense. He can't relax, not knowing what's to come and when it'll come – okay, a blowjob, fine, but how many blowjobs before Quinto wants to have a go at his ass? Do they even have lube? Is Quinto clean?

The most important question should be, is Chris really going to do it? But the cold, hard truth is that Chris has no way to defend himself – he doesn't have any friends, and one thing he learns very quickly is that in prison, you need friends. Without friends, even Jason had ended up grovelling in front of Quinto before running off, and from what Chris can tell by watching, Jason is rather high up in the food chain. Quinto, though, is right at the top; even some of the guards treat him differently.

There's different groups in this prison, Chris learns through careful watching in the yard, and each group has its own rank in the food chain, and within each group there's another rank system, and sometimes being a low member of one group means that you're fucked if a high member of a group lower than yours decides to have a go at you – but only if your friends aren't willing to stand up for you. There's skinheads, different ethnicities, religious groups, gangs, and there's the "girls"; Chris hasn't really been able to figure out yet what social standing they have, because they seem to be sort of apart from everybody else.

Watching the way people go out of their way not to mess with them, Chris actually sort of considers joining their ranks, just for the protection everybody else's homophobia (and if that wasn't irony, Chris didn't know what was) offered. Maybe, if he had to stay here longer, he actually would have, but it was too late now anyway, and hopefully, he'd get out in one and a half months. If he was lucky.

Up until then, he still had to deal with Quinto, and it seems that five days after Chris came here, his amnesty period is over.

It's a while after dinner, just before lights out, that Quinto calls him calmly. "Chris," he says, and it's the first time he's said his name and Chris inanely remembers that he never actually told him – or anyone here, for that matter. "Come up here," Quinto continues, and then the call comes and suddenly the lights are gone.

"Uhm, what?" Chris says stupidly, then covers his face with his book. Two days ago, he had finally gotten access to the library and taken out as many books as he was allowed at a time – three.

Quinto sighs audibly. "If you don't want everybody to become aware of what we're doing, I suggest you quit playing stupid and come up here."

"Right." It's not actually pitch black; the hall outside usually is lit by a dim light, but since Chris' eyes haven't adjusted to the dark yet, he can barely see a thing. And crap, he thinks while he gets off the bed and feels around Quinto's bed for purchase to climb atop, he's actually sort of excited. He can't be serious.

Why not, though, he suddenly thinks angrily. It's going to happen anyway, he might as well enjoy himself instead of trying to make it feel worse just so he'll have a cleaner conscience afterwards. There's nothing shameful about enjoying sex. Even if it's sort of coerced.

The bunk beds aren't actually made for two people, so Chris has no other choice but to straddle Quinto when the guy makes no indication to make room for him. Chris doesn't particularly plan to fall off and crack his head open; Quinto might actually leave him lying there and bleed all over the floor just for his own amusement.

Quinto makes a noise of amusement when Chris straddles his knees.

"What?", Chris asks, irritated. "It's not like you're giving me any room to work, here."

"I suggest you be a lot quieter," Quinto whispers; Chris' eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness that he can see dark eyes glittering up at him. "Otherwise we're really going to have an audience."

Chris grimaces. He's getting enough whispers and looks already, he doesn't really like the idea of getting even more.

Quinto's hands on his hips distract him from his trail of thoughts, and, right, he's here for a reason. Supporting himself on each side of Quinto's head, Chris leans down and puts their lips together.

Quinto seems mightily surprised, and in that moment Chris realises his mistake; right, this is prison coercive sex, people probably don't kiss, but before he can backtrack and apologise and die of mortification, there's a hand on the back of his head holding him in place and suddenly Quinto's mouth is pliant against his and they're kissing. And god, Quinto can kiss. Chris is breathless within moments, and then Quinto pulls at him and twists them around until Chris is pressed half into the wall, half into the bed with Quinto on top of him, and crap, Chris has to stop making noises, he has to be quiet.

They make out for a while like they're actually normal people, with hands gliding over bodies and under t-shirts, until Quinto's hands slide down Chris' sides and take hold of his boxershorts to pull them off. Chris is still totally on board with that, but then Quinto's hands knead his ass and one finger slides between his cheeks, rubbing over his asshole, and Chris suddenly comes aware that this was not how it was planned. "Wait, Quinto," he whispers, pulling his mouth away, glad he remembered at the last moment to be quiet. "I thought you said blowjobs."

"I did," Quinto murmurs into Chris ear, his voice a low rasp that makes Chris shudder, one of his hands pulling away from Chris' ass. "I changed my mind."

Chris doesn't quite know what to say to that, but he doesn't get much chance to think about it either because the next moment, Quinto's hand is back, and his fingers are wet and slick with something cold that feels an awful lot like lube. "Where the hell did you get lube here?", Chris asks, astonished.

Quinto raises an eyebrow, and Chris' eyes have finally adjusted enough to the dark that he can see it. "I can get anything I want," Quinto just says, pushing one finger in and a second immediately after, making Chris tense up and hiss before he forces himself to relax. Quinto actually gives him that moment before pushing his fingers in deeper and starting to stretch Chris, not particularly careful, but not too rough either. Sort of the way Chris fingers himself, actually.

They're not kissing anymore now, just lying with Quinto on top of Chris, bodies sweaty and both panting sort of into each other's space. Their foreheads are leant together, and with every push of his fingers Quinto's wrist rubs against Chris' balls, and every now and then Quinto's hips flex where they're pressed to Chris' thigh, pushing Quinto's erection against him. Chris figures he probably looks sort of weird, with one of his legs leaning up against the wall to give Quinto more room. Maybe he should pick up yoga; there are some people who do that in the yard. The first time Chris had seen, he had been violently amused and had had to hide his laughter, because he had figured protected or not, if he laughed about the inmates, he wouldn't continue living so happily unbothered by everyone. But it had looked hilarious, all these guys of various sizes in their orange overalls rolling around on the ground, contorting themselves.

Chris possibly still has problems considering himself an inmate too now, even though he wears the same orange overall as everybody else, and even though he sort of deserves it (though he still maintains that, considering nothing happened but him wrecking his car and himself up a little, the punishment had been unduly high).

"This is not the first time you're doing this," Quinto remarks quietly; it's not really a question.

"Technically, I'm not doing anything, you're the one with the fingers up my ass," Chris whispers back. "But even for that it wouldn't be the first time."

Quinto snorts and pushes in a third finger, making Chris take a slow, controlled breath and clench up a couple of times to get used to the feeling quicker. Once again, Quinto keeps his fingers still until Chris relaxes; then he continues with the stretching. It's not at all what Chris expected, and he says as much.

"You're being awfully thoughtful," he whispers.

"Weirdly, I prefer consensual sex to non-consensual sex that leaves my partner permanently incapacitated," Quinto murmurs back. He sort of sounds like he's rolling his eyes; Chris can't see, because their faces are too close together.

"Didn't sound like it when I first came here," Chris grumbles.

Quinto just shrugs carelessly; it makes his fingers move differently in Chris' body and for the first time brush against Chris' prostate; he probably makes a noise that is a little too loud for Quinto's taste, because when he can think again a hand is covering his mouth and Quinto is twitching.

Okay, not twitching, laughing silently. Chris would be a lot more indignant about it if he hadn't lost half his brain and most of his breath and perhaps if Quinto didn't insist on keeping his fingers just above Chris' prostate, not really pressing down, but sort of brushing against it every time he pushes his fingers in, basically driving Chris crazy until Chris can't stand it anymore. "Are you going to fuck me or what?!", he hisses, a bit louder than he intended, but probably – hopefully – not so loud anybody else understood him.

Thankfully, Quinto doesn't seem amused this time; instead, he fumbles around his bed for the lube and – Chris hopes fiercely – a condom. Because no matter where, Chris really, really does not want to have sex without protection.

Thankfully, Quinto appears to agree with the sentiment, because moments later Chris hears the noise of plastic being ripped open, and then Quinto's hips move away from him a little as he smooths the condom down his hard dick. Afterwards he coats himself in lube, not even warming it a little, and the next moment a slick hand is on Chris legs, pulling him away from the corner he had been pressing into and pushing his thighs further apart. And then Quinto finally guides his cock to Chris' entry and, without hesitation, pushes in with one smooth glide.

Chris has precautionarily put one of his hands to his mouth, ready to shut himself up if he makes any noise; now, as Quinto's cock slides into him, not extraordinarily big or anything but big enough, he bites on his fingers to prevent himself from getting loud. It also muffles the sound of confusion he makes when Quinto then stops and leans away a little to wrap the blanket around his hips, covering their asses.

"Noise prevention," Quinto whispers, and okay, that makes sense.

Then Quinto pulls back and thrusts back in, immediately setting up a rhythm that is sort of like the guy is; decisive, no-nonsense, but not too hard or cruel. And Chris really should stop philosophizing about the guy fucking him – at least while he's doing it.

But it's just so good, and seriously, when he started having sex with guys, Chris was amazed at how many of them were unable to manage a rhythmic, well, rhythm. It wasn't that difficult, after all; Chris certainly had learned how quickly, but for some reason it is a rare ability to be coveted. Certainly, it explains why so many guys liked to put on music during sex, but when Chris had found himself picking songs and placing them at a certain time interval in the tracklist according to what he wanted when, he had broken up with his last boyfriend and sworn to himself that the next guy he would bottom for would be a musician.

That hadn't worked out so well apparently, but really, it didn't matter, it didn't matter at all. Because Quinto could fuck even better than he could kiss; Chris feels like he is the absolute centre of his attention, like all Quinto is focusing on is fucking Chris' brains out. And he is extraordinarily good at it.

So good that he has to reach over Chris' head in the middle of it and get the pillow so Chris xan put it over his mouth, because his hand doesn't suffice anymore muffling the noises he makes. He just can't stop himself; Quinto fucks like it's his job and like he loves that job, and it's sort of dizzying to be at the focus of his concentration, and then there is the part where Quinto effortlessly hits Chris' prostrate every time he thrusts in, which Chris hadn't even known is possible. And there also is the part where Quinto is leaning over him, looming over him really, and fixating him with his dark, completely focused gaze; Chris felt feels pinned and, more importantly, completely owned.

It's the best sex of Chris' life, and it's just his luck that he was having it in prison with a guy who probably wouldn't get out for at least twenty years, until they were at an age where you could only do it twice a week anymore. Suddenly he sort of wishes his sentence were longer.

Which clearly is insane. Apparently, Quinto had completely fucked his brains out. With the way he is going at it, though, Chris is not surprised. And then, on top of everything else, Quinto puts a hand on the blanket where Chris dick is, and just like that, Chris goes off like a rocket, coming with a loud groan that is hopefully muffled by the pillow he's biting.

While Chris is coming, Quinto's pace doesn't change at all, but after it turns erratic for a few thrusts and then Quinto comes as well, just moments after Chris. And, like about every guy in the history of mankind (or at least every guy Chris had ever had sex with), he doesn't manage to hold himself up a moment longer afterwards and sort of collapses on top of Chris.

That is okay for a couple of moments, but then Chris decides he likes air better than Quinto, no matter how good Quinto is at fucking him stupid, and he heaves the sweaty, heavy body off him.

And almost off the bed. Quinto yelps and grapples for hold, finding it in Chris and the bed frame over their heads.

"Jesus Christ!", Quinto hisses when he's not in danger of cracking his head open on the cement floor anymore.

"Uhm," Chris says, remembering at the last moment not to speak too loudly. "Sorry?"

Quinto snorts and pushes him into the corner of wall and bed again so he has more room. "Clearly," he says quietly while pulling the blanket away, grimacing at the wet spot, "we have to practice that some more."

Chris puts on a dismayed expression. "More mind-blowing, coerced prison sex? Oh noes!"

Quinto takes the pillow away from where it slid off Chris' face and muffles his laughter with it. Chris feels self-congratulatory – he made the dangerous Mafia boss whom everybody is afraid of laugh! – until Quinto throws him out of his bed and steals his blanket, making Chris sleep with the one with the wet spot. Next time, he'll plan that better.


End file.
